I note with mild interest the uproar that has caused businesses to pull raw tomatoes from their menus or produce shelves because of a salmonella outbreak.

For as much as I love tomatoes, this doesn’t bother me because I love only good tomatoes. Mediocre tomatoes I can live without, and good tomatoes can be hard to find — but not impossible. We’re fortunate to have farmer’s markets, and they have amazing produce for at least part of the year.

If I can’t get good tomatoes, I don’t want them. To bite into a tomato and find it has little or no taste doesn’t aggravate me as much as it once did because I’ve grown used to the disappointment.

Hothouse tomatoes often aren’t worth taking home because they’ve been bred for beauty and longevity on the shelf, rather than taste. They’re made to look pretty on a sandwich or in a salad, which is fine because they’ll be covered up with dressing or some other condiment. Besides, many people don’t know what a real tomato tastes like.

Like women, some of the best tomatoes are less than gorgeous. By the same token, many fine-looking tomatoes (and women) are best left for someone else to deal with.

My family and friends spoiled me, when it comes to vegetables.

Aunt Mary and Uncle Lohr Jackson lived near Johnstown, and they had an enormous garden. Aunt Mary would issue knives to my mom and dad and me and turn us loose in it, and that was better than being in a candy store .

When fresh vegetables are good enough, you don’t need to put salt, pepper or sugar on them. I feel sorry for folks who grew up in a place where they were never able to just break a fresh ear of corn off the stalk, pull off the husk and silk and eat it raw right there in the field.

Such corn is a gift from God, and so is a sweet spring onion (you can look at it and tell when it’s just the right size) when you pluck it from the earth, wring it and skin it to remove the top layer and the dirt, trim off the roots and chomp down past the part where the white turns to green.

Mary and Frank Calemine had a garden at their place in the country, and when Mary got tired of Frank and me being underfoot, she’d send us to the garden.

For a couple of summers, we had to share it with a buck deer that was adopted as a fawn and raised by some neighbors. This is normally a bad thing to do because even though the fawn seems to be alone, Mama is usually somewhere close. In this case, Mama was lying road-killed nearby.

We called him Bucky, and he came when called. During hunting season, they tied an orange ribbon around his neck and got the word out that, “We know what this deer looks like, and anybody who kills him and checks him in will have hell to pay.” More than one hunter admitted passing up a shot at him.

Bucky liked the corn, and Frank and I favored the tomatoes and onions.

My dad had a farmer friend who kept him supplied with fresh corn.

He would call me to report when this fellow expected to have the next batch ready for harvest, and — being retired and able to do such things at leisure — he’d show up bright and early that day to bring a few dozen ears home. He always made sure to cook and eat a few when he got home to make sure they were fit for me to eat.

It became a ritual on Sunday for our post-church lunch to consist solely of a couple of convenience store chili dogs and all the corn we could eat. Finally, we omitted the hot dogs and just ate the corn. It was so good that I can still close my eyes and taste it. The true test of one’s patience is waiting until corn like this cools off enough to be safely handled and eaten.

Dad was a horticultural rookie when he decided to grow tomatoes and, knowing no better, put in more than a dozen plants. Every one of them produced, and folks all over Keyser got tomatoes.

Uncle Abe Goldsworthy also took to raising tomatoes, and there was a perpetual argument between him and my dad as to whose were best. Abe even made it into Georgie Greenthumb’s column a couple of times.

Dad eventually added a couple of pepper plants to his garden, and the minister who lived next door gave him a little sign to put amidst the plants that said, “Thou Shalt Not Covet Thy Neighbor’s Vegetables.”

One night, Mom picked a tomato that was half again as big as a softball and sliced it for dinner. I found it, ate the whole thing one slice at a time without any salt or pepper, then went out and fetched another tomato to cut up for the table.

A truly good tomato doesn’t need salt, pepper or anything else, just as a magnificent steak needs no sauce from a bottle. Likewise, a truly good ear of corn needs only to be slathered with butter, and a sweet onion of any size can stand on its own or with anything else that can be put between two slices of bread.

Forget the lettuce and ... I never thought I’d say this ... the bacon. A slice of good onion with a slice of good tomato between two slabs of buttered white bread (preferably homemade and still warm) can go up against any BLT ever made. Unlike most things, you can eat as many of them as you want, and they’re good for you.

How does one tell if a store tomato, an ear of corn or, for that matter, a melon is worth eating? Pick it up and smell it. If it smells like a tomato, an ear of corn or a melon, take it home. If there’s no smell, put it down and walk on.

Testing an onion is a little more challenging. My suggestion would be to sniff it, and if it makes your eyes water ... nah.